The Hardest Thing
by Pyreiris
Summary: A short one off writing exercise based on a character development challenge.
1. Chapter 1

_This little bit is part of a writing character development challenge another fanfic author came up with. It takes place just after Laurelin's first mate, Isrym was killed in a raid in Valenwood, about forty years before the Dragon Crisis occurs. _

* * *

"Mother, you need to eat." Nisinah said quietly, holding out a bowl of food, trying fruitlessly to tempt her mother into eating. It had been a week.

"I'm not hungry right now, thank you, sweetling," replied Laurelin in a hollow tone, her voice raspy. Her long blond hair hung in limp tangles around her ravaged face, falling over blue eyes that stared blankly at her hands. Hands trembling with fatigue, sorrow, hunger that she refused to feed._ Empty. Nothing will be right again_.

Nisinah set the bowl aside, and knelt in front of her mother, folding shaking hands into her own steady ones. "It's time. You need to say good bye." She tried to catch Laurelin's gaze, but her mother shut her eyes, biting her lips against the hitching sobs that were welling up again. Tears squeezed out the corners of her eyes, tracing over high cheekbones and dropping slowly off her jaw.

"The rest of us need to say it too. We're all waiting for you. Please, come sing his song. He wouldn't want you to waste away like this."

_Gone. Empty. Why? How do I go on with out you?_ Laurelin realized her eldest child was still talking to her, now pressing a cup of water into her hands._ I don't want to drink. I want to die. Just like him. Take me from this agony_.

A week simply wasn't long enough to be able to wrap her head around his loss. She knew she had responsibilities to look after. It wasn't fair to her children to detach herself the way she was. Yet all she could think was, _I'll never hear his voice again_. He couldn't ever whisper in her ear late at night, stroke her brow the way she loved. They would never cling to each other in the heights of passion, heedless of the world around. _No_. He was gone to the Ancestors now, too far away for her to reach. For the rest of her life.

Nisinah was pressing the cup to her lips, begging her to drink, tears of her own streaming from her black eyes. "Please, Mother. We need you here. You can't join him yet. He said he wanted you to live well. You have to _live_ if you are to carry out his last wish. Please mother, just a sip."

Although she truly couldn't imagine living with the pain she felt now, let alone living _well_, she took a sip of the cool water, sweetened with honey. She could make herself do this much for her pleading, anguished daughter. It flowed down her throat, easing a bit of the parched pain. Pain that was far more tolerable than that of her heart. It didn't taste sweet to Laurelin. It tasted like a lie. _Nothing. Empty. Gone. Forever, gone._

Without understanding, she allowed her daughter to slowly trickle the water down her throat. She hated the feeling of it filling her shrunken belly._ Better to just die? You know you can't do that. But how? How do I continue?_ She didn't fight when Nisinah began to hand feed her slivers of meat, she chewed and swallowed mechanically, tasting nothing but ash.

Slowly, the trembling in her hands stilled. Her thoughts still dull and unfocused, she soon felt a hint of vitality returning to her body after the water and tiny amount of food she allowed herself. Nisinah was right, she knew, she just couldn't summon the will she needed to complete the tasks before her. All of her energy had poured out in a torrent of keening grief, that had lasted days. Her high, piercing cries had carried far into the forest, with out pause. She knew he had been prepared for the final rites by her son. All that remained was her part, singing the song and sending his spirit on. _Live well_. Since dying seemed to be out of the question, she decided to at least live. Living _well_, that might come in time.

Laurelin slowly heaved herself up, swaying unsteadily. Aye, she would live. Now it was time to go sing the song of Leave Taking. He deserved this much, and so much more. _Live well. Live well. Live well_. A mantra, a dim light to guide her through her darkness, when she was ready to see it.


	2. Healing

I'll admit now, three decades is a long time to mourn. _Over_ three decades, actually. At first, each breath is torture. My body betrayed me with every inhalation. If I hadn't made a promise, I don't think I would have survived him by very much. My skin itched maddeningly, and my joints hurt. In my belly was an anxiety that could not be eased. That desperate feeling of having lost my heart, my will to go on. Living seemed as though it was the most distant, phantasmagorical achievement imaginable.

I had always been told that time heals all hurts. If only I could have believed that for myself. After Isrym died, it felt as though he'd taken part of me with him. The part that could laugh and feel joy, savor the kiss of sunlight or raindrops on my face. He had taken the best part of me to the flames. My children urged me to continue as if nothing was different. But I couldn't. When I turned to show him something, it was always a heartbeat too late that I remembered, and I would find myself gazing at the spot at my side where he had always been. So empty.

When I finally tore myself from home the first time, it wasn't a peaceful moment of moving on, accepting what was. It was in frantic bid to see if I could dull the pain, somewhere far from all the memories. Even seeing my beloved children and grandchildren was an agony. Their faces, manners—all too reminiscent of him. I could still weep, remembering their crushed faces when I had to flee.

* * *

I disappeared for several months, losing myself in the trees, eating what I killed with my bare hands, teeth, crude spears I crafted. I spent as little time thinking about my life – such as it was – as possible. I realize now I was starting to slowly push the pain behind a wall, where I didn't look at it or touch it. That way, a part of me never had to cope with his loss. Or so I thought. As I said before, three decades is a long time.

Nisinah and Aheia found me finally. It is probably a good thing that they didn't bring Belarym; I'm not sure what I would have done. He resembles his father so much, you see.

They stayed with me, and how I confess my soul needed to have my daughters near, to hear their lovely voices. I was gaunt and undernourished, and my girls hunted with me, made me eat when I often didn't feel like it. They held me close when I wept, listened patiently when I raged. But these outbursts would always be short-lived. By now I had forced so much of the pain behind that wall, it had become tolerable. But after the pain, I still felt absolutely empty. They convinced me to come home, and so I let myself be led back to a home full of memories.

* * *

My daughters hoped that being back home would help. It only seemed to make the emptiness more open to see. Every one treated me as though I were made of glass. They tried so hard; I know they did. My grandchildren would bring me shiny bugs with hopeful expressions on their faces, and as much as I wanted to be able to find the joy, I just couldn't. It wasn't fair! They should be able to bring these treasures to their grandfather as well. He should be able to see them grow and learn. All the love I felt for them would well up, mixed with that pain, and it was all I could do to not choke. I remember taking the insects and smiling, but I know they weren't fooled. Children are so wise and perceptive sometimes. They would just scamper off to try something new. It was the same with my children. "Mother, can I get you this? Do you want some of that? Mother, I saw this and thought of you." They tried so hard, even though they had their own pain, to help ease mine and I was selfish! So selfish. All I could see and feel was mine.

I finally left again to travel. I felt I wasn't being fair to them; I felt I was preventing them from moving on because they were so busy looking out for me. So I said goodbye. I think Nisinah was worried I was planning on getting myself killed; it was hard for her to say goodbye. I did my best to assure them I would be back. I love them all too much to put them through that pain.

Shouldering my pack, walking into the predawn gloom, I still had no clue where I was going or what I was going to do. I decided to follow the moons for a while, their pull being the only thing that still spoke untainted to my heart.

* * *

Years went by, but I scarcely kept count. I was only made aware of the swiftness of their passing by the startling changes in my grandchildren when I visited. By now the rawness of my grief had worn away. Over time, I had begun to see the beauty in things again, had learned to laugh once more. On the surface, everything was fine, and I had accepted my mate's death. I had even taken lovers. Yet there was never a point where I would allow any deeper connection that might threaten the integrity of the wall I'd built around my heart. If I didn't let any one else in, it wouldn't hurt when I lost them.

For thity-six years I told myself I was fine, even though I knew there was still the lonely, empty feeling waiting to rise up and overwhelm me if I let my guard down. For thirty-six years I roamed the greater part of Tamriel, looking for a place where I could lay the burden to rest or outrun it. Thirty-six years after Isrym died, I crossed the borders into Skyrim for the first time.

I wanted the challenge, I confess. Skyrim, with it's harsh weather and hostile Nords with a long history of hating anything with pointy ears. Giants and mammoths to hunt. I spent the entire first moon cycle in Skyrim watching a pack of wolves. I had heard of them of course, but never seen one. Most of them have been hunted out of the wilds in the rest of the Empire. Eventually I made my way out of the wilderness and found, to my surprise, that most Nords didn't give a skeever's ass that I have pointy ears.

My skill with bow and blade earned me enough coin to supply myself; everything I couldn't hunt or trade for, I had no compunctions stealing. I had spent enough time on the road with mercenaries and trade caravans to have hardened quite a bit. In some ways it made me stronger, sharper. But my heart was still not ready to let it _all_ go. I would throw myself into work, battle, the hunt, seeking that turning point, that instant which triggers release from it all.

As it turned out, there never was a triggering moment. But I suppose it started when a tall, fiery-haired Nord approached me and knowingly told me I had never worked a day in my life for the coin I had. It was the knock at the gates; I just didn't know it. All I knew was that at the moment I wanted to make a necklace of his pretty teeth and make him eat his words.

* * *

_Hello again lovely readers! This short bit was another random writing exercise. In my head, she was speaking to Vilkas, perhaps leading into a tale of how she became involved with the Thieves Guild. Since it ties in fairly closely with "The Hardest Thing," I've decided to file this with that other little exercise. As always, I hope you enjoy! Also, I love reviews, comments and questions! Cheers, ~PyreIris~ _


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